


Retirement

by agurking



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Amnesic Harry, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Not a Crossover, tinker tailor soldier spy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agurking/pseuds/agurking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s retired, or so he thought - until he met Jim Ellis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

‘Jim Ellis.’ The man sitting opposite Harry tipped his pint glass and nodded slightly, ‘I teach at the school.’

Harry was taken aback. He was not at all expecting this... Jim to be introducing himself. It is true that technically they had been acquainted for some time now - after all _The Green Knight_ was a village pub catering almost exclusively the locals, which was not a large number to begin with - it also seemed they were often the only patrons frequenting the place before the normal clocking off hours. Besides, Jim Ellis possessed the kind of commanding presence that no one could miss, be it the shaved head with the most striking features, or the long limbs that seemed to have taken up all the space. Inadvertently they shared a few acknowledging nods when passing by, or a few pleasantries over the shared copy of paper, but that was that. Harry raised his sight from his paper to the person sitting across, the latter had an expectant look on him.

‘Uh, Harry H...’ Harry stuttered but hid it quickly, ‘Harry Haydon.’

He took Jim’s extended hand and shook it briefly. His new acquaintance had a firm and warm handshake, and a smile that seemed to illuminate his entire countenance almost instantly. The smile disappeared all too quickly, Harry could still feel the warmth lingering at his fingertips. 

‘The school, do you mean the boys boarding school up the hills?’ Harry inquired, trying to sound polite and genuine . 

‘Aye, that’s right.’ Jim looked a bit surprised, ‘It’s the only school around here really. Why, you must be new to this area then?’

Harry squirmed in his seat slightly, this was not the conversation he wanted to have. The last thing he wanted was to pique the interest of some local school teacher, in a remote village where gossips were served alongside tea instead of cakes. Harry wasn’t particularly ready to conjure up a persona for Harry Haydon the pseudonym just yet, though he had the feeling that he’s definitely familiar with the deed. He now felt the return of his headache looming.

Jim seemed to have sensed his discomfort, and went on carrying his side of the conversation, ‘Oh no worries, I know the feeling. I was in those shoes once, you know. What’s a Scotsman doing here anyway, they used to say. The charming backwaters of the English countryside...’ He snorted, ‘Well, it takes time, but I reckon you’ll do just fine.’

Harry smiled a small uncertain smile to his companion, which was quickly reciprocated, ‘Yes, it does… take some getting used to.’ Harry added cautiously, ‘though the local ale can be an incentive to stay.’ 

‘There you have it. It’s not that difficult is it?’ Jim picked up his glass and finished off the last bit of his pint, ‘Don’t let Pete at the bar hear you though, or you’ll never hear the end of it. Right, I’d better get back before dinner, or the folks off work, whichever comes first.’ Harry watched him picking up a jacket from the peg, ‘It’s been nice talking to you, Harry.’ Jim nodded his farewell and left the table. 

Harry continued to watch as Jim waving off the bartender Pete, sliding his long arms into that navy bomber jacket, pushing through the doors, and disappearing down the last pane of the windows with his blurred silhouette. Feeling slightly embarrassed, Harry caught himself when realising his thoughts had been lingering on that navy jacket for a little longer than appropriate. The garment did accentuate the pleasing backside of his new acquaintance’s rather well.

For some reason, the dingy local pub appeared to have brightened up a notch for the first time in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a crossover fic, but there are elements from TTSS and Fever Pitch.  
> Thanks for reading and happy hunting.


	2. Chapter 2

None of this feels right, Harry thought absent mindedly, taking in the meadows he was walking on, yellowish with the faintest hint of green. It was by no means an unpleasant place, this slumbering village tucked away in the forgotten corner of miles and miles of rolling grassland. But Harry had known for certain by now he was not a subscriber to _Country Life_ , and perhaps never would be - it simply did not fit.

This game of jigsaw puzzle was starting to get tedious. Harry had been playing the sleuth on himself ever since he’d woken up and could gather enough wits about him. It was a six-month drug induced coma, he was told afterwards, a conservative treatment given the state of his head wound at the time. Loss of episodic memory was not unusual in this case, Mr Haydon, they added, you will have to accept the fact that it may or may not come back to you in the future - their expressions weary, practically spelling out the subtext ‘you should be congratulating yourself for living through V-day in one piece instead of taking up more of our time’. 

Harry wasn’t sure how much of episodic memory loss would be considered unusual, for he couldn’t really recall a single episode of his life up until the point he woke up from the coma. He wasn’t cognitively impaired per se, not officially diagnosed anyway. The typical mundane facts and chores, the likes and dislikes, were still in place - for example, he was miffed that everyone kept calling him Mr Haydon, because it didn’t feel right. But he just couldn’t really remember anything much _about_ himself, _how_ he came to his preferences and _why_ he would act the way he did. It felt like he’d lived his formative years in a dream, only to be woken up and had forgotten all about it - if such thing’s even possible, Harry thought ironically.

Then he checked his own chart, Harry Haydon, male, gunshot wound to the head amongst other injuries. Sounds about right.

It was another six months before he was deemed recovered enough to be discharged. Every single day of rehab was painful, but he got by. Harry was relieved that physically he was recovering, it was the memory loss and the lack of progress on that front that was disconcerting: he still couldn’t remember his name, his job, or his family, no matter how hard he tried.

During one of the physio rehab sessions, Harry discovered his higher than usual tolerance to pain, comparing to his fellow patients. Occasionally he would caught a glimpse of his own excellent reflex, on the side of the body that wasn’t affected anyway. There were old scars on his body, all healed nicely and didn’t seem to leave any lasting damage. And the fact that no one seemed to bat an eyelid to his gunshot wound in the head - not as if this was an unusual occurrence anymore, after V-day - gave him some rough ideas. Law enforcement of sorts, military, black ops - field work is more likely - could explain everything. Harry decided his immense sense of honour wouldn’t allow him to be anything else, not when it came to picking sides. For the life of him, he could never explain the secret thrill he felt when he reached on that decision. _Maybe he used to love his job._

The sound of a bark pulled Harry’s thought back to his walk. Mr Pickles - Harry decided on the name the moment he laid eyes on the terrier - was handed to him on the day of his discharge from the hospital. Along with the key to a country cottage and a pension account that raised his eyebrows. He bonded with the dog almost immediately, it would seem he wasn’t alone after all - a guess he was glad he got wrong.

Taking in his surroundings, Harry realised he had walked up the hills overlooking the grounds of the boarding school, almost unconsciously. Some boys were playing football, mud on their white gears apparent even from a distance. So this is where Jim Ellis works, surveying the grounds, Harry could not help but wonder about his new acquaintance, the tall, hot man with his shaved head and long legs. 

Having not had any recollections of a normal life, Harry decided to stop his speculations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, am really flattered :D  
> Feel free to discuss human memory mechanisms.


	3. Chapter 3

The chance meetings with Jim at the pub soon upgraded to deliberate ones. Harry would normally be at the pub when Jim came in for his pint after school’s finished - not Tuesdays and Fridays because Jim’s coaching Year 9 footballs - they’d share a table and spend a quiet half-hour talking about nothing and everything over their pints, or more recently, playing Subbuteo table football, which Harry soon discovered he was rather skilled and thoroughly enjoyed trumping his opponent.

‘Why didn’t I suggest darts or even the fruit machine in the first place?’ Jim complained when Harry scored a ruthless fourth goal, with a slight pout that partly attributed his downfall.

‘Because in my condition throwing darts in confined space will ensure serious damage,’ Harry explained dryly, raising his trembling right hand for demonstration, ‘And the fruit machine has never been turned on.’

‘Right, sorry.’ Jim was anything but, ‘You’re not trembling near as much when you’re playing!’

‘Well, that’s because I’ve been flicking with my left hand in case you haven’t noticed. I guess I’ll have to thank you for aiding my rehabilitation. And for buying my drinks for the past week.’

Jim laughed a little, ‘Stop now, cheeky. Or we’ll be playing darts, end of. Besides, why do you keep hogging the red and white team? Perhaps my yellow and blue’s cursed. That’s why I’ve been losing.’ Jim then suggested, ‘We should swap teams.’

For some reason, Harry was mildly offended by the suggestion, but he kept it to himself, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’ll take more than swapping teams to improve your scoring skills.’

‘My scoring skills’ poor because one of my team’s got an old injury done by one of the drunkards round here. You’ll be having unfaired advantages..’

‘An _invisible_ old injury you mean?’ Harry snorted, ‘It’s terribly inconvenient to swap teams in the middle of a match, not to mention it’s just impossible to imagine my team being anything other than red and white..’

‘Oh, hold on..Did you say your team?’ Harry knew the other man’s interest’s been piqued, yet again, from the tilt of his head, ‘You’re what.. a United fan?’ a shake of head from Harry, ‘A secret Scouser?’ Another shake, ‘Not the Dons, you can’t be… Aberdeen I mean.’ Jim started to look incredulous if not scandalous. 

‘Don’t think I’ve even been there in my life. Go on then, you’ll get there eventually.’ Harry remarked with a grunt almost audible.

‘Alright, there’s also… A Gunner, you are?’ Jim couldn’t really hide his smirk at this point, ‘Why I’d never! An Arsenal man!’

‘Might I inquire what’s so remarkable about that?’ Harry asked, slightly annoyed.

‘Nah, nothing remarkable at all. Respectable team I’ll give you that.’ Jim’s smirk widened into a genuine grin, ‘It’s just...’

‘Well?’

‘It’s probably the first time you struck me as being human, Harry Haydon.’ Jim finished his sentence, with a look in his eyes Harry couldn’t quite place. ‘Though still difficult to imagine the scene.’

‘In that case I’ll agree to a swap of teams, since you asked nicely.’ An awful attempt to deflect attentions, ‘On one condition, you can’t be Arsenal any more, pick any other team.’

‘Oh aren’t you the loyal ones?’ Jim had the cheek to raised an eyebrow to match his grin, ‘Let’s see, I’ll be United then, and you can be… hold on, you’re still Arsenal with those yellow and blues! That’s your away colours!’

It would seem a good time to confess, ‘A home win is always more satisfying.’

Jim actually laughed this time, producing sound and sight that made Harry itchy but not quite knowing where to scratch, ‘If it pleases you… And, this game’s abandoned. We’ll start again, nil - nil, or the scoring will do my head in!’

‘Fine.’ Harry feigned acquiescence.

‘Yes!’ Jim’s already put the ball back to the midlines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blatantly 'borrowing' from Fever Pitch, I know...  
> More fluff to come, and thanks for sticking around :)


	4. Chapter 4

‘You look like you’re going to _purr_ any minute now...’

Harry reluctantly twisted his head a little, from the corner of his eyes he could see Jim sitting comfortably in the other armchair, with a self-satisfying grin tucked in the corner of his mouth, the exact one Harry had always wanted to kiss right off his face. But then, Harry’s just had the most pleasant meal he’d had for awhile, he’s nice and warm in front of a fire in his own living room, a decent glass of whisky in hand, happily waiting for his beloved Arsenal to return on TV for the second half after the advert break. Perhaps that kiss can wait. 

Instead the sound of a burp broke the relative silence in the room. Harry felt the tips of his ears burning, and Jim’s hysteric laugh didn’t really help the matter. In a momentary lapse of judgment, Harry downed his shot of whisky in one go, which did little to ease his embarrassment except for giving him more coughs and burns. Jim’s now practically rolling on the floor laughing.

When things did calm down a bit - with Jim’s hand soothing his back and the other holding out a glass of water - Harry finally regained part of his composure, though not his dignity. He took the glass from Jim, and returned him with a dirty look when drinking.

‘Well, that’s more action from you than the entire first half put together.’ Jim was of course, not at all affected by looks of any kind, ‘Just remind me not to feed you that much next time, Harry. A _belching_ gentleman is most unbecoming.’ 

‘Laughing at someone else’s misfortune can hardly be described as gentlemanly behaviour either.’ Harry retorted, putting down his glass a little more forcefully to make his point.

‘Misfortune? That’s a tad exaggerating for letting a bit of air out of your stomach...’ Before Jim could finish his sentence, he was pushed off balanced into the sofa, with Harry vehemently tickling his sides. Harry was quick and he knew exactly where human weaknesses lay, half straddling Jim after finding his vantage point, he was determined to seek his revenge.

‘Harry… you cheeky...’ Jim breathed out some phrases, which of course was soon drowned out by laughters. Wiggling to free himself but with no success, Jim gave up after some struggles. Just when Harry thought he’s got the upper hand, his wrists were caught in iron grips. Jim pulled his attacker towards him vigorously, and in a heartbeat, Harry was rolled over, his back now against the sofa, his body pinned down by Jim’s. Jim was now the one with the upper hand, and an incredibly smug grin on his face.

‘A gentleman, Harry, will always wait for the other to finish a sentence.’ Jim scolded, right next to Harry’s ears, his hot breaths making Harry shiver. The kiss that followed was such cliche, Harry’s remaining senses complained but soon vanished altogether. It felt right, so unlike other things in Harry’s life - Jim Ellis felt so right Harry could’ve sworn he’d known him all his life.

Feeling rather like emerging from water, Harry’s senses came back gradually after the kiss. He could hear the Gunners chanting again on the TV, and he could see an unusually dark look in Jim’s eyes, his pupils dilated, his breathing still short.

‘But what about the second half?’ 

‘That, is gonna happen in the bedroom.’ Jim sounded very determined, and Harry couldn’t fault that excellent quality in a gentleman.


	5. Chapter 5

‘Victoria station via Soho, please.’

The black cab eased into motion. The cab driver had one glance at the mirror and asked, ‘Was it a good match then? Just heard on the radio we’ve won.’

‘Why aye, won 4 -1 before them away fans’ got settled. A good day for us.’ Jim chatted away happily with the cab driver, his fingers curled up against Harry’s across the seats.

Harry smiled indulgently at Jim’s almost childish cheer, the latter was wearing the yellow and blue Arsenal away shirt, looking every part the devoted follower. Earlier this morning, Jim turned up unexpectedly at Harry’s doorsteps, hours before their scheduled date later in the evening. 

‘London calling!’ Jim was waving with the tickets in his hand excitedly. It was one of the most anticipated clashes of giants of the season, and Harry was only too happy to oblige. Frankly, the train and tube journey on the way to London was a blur to Harry, Jim’s enthusiasm had soaked up all his attentions.

The match spectacular, the company pleasant, the weather tolerable, Harry was determined to enjoy his Saturday. Instead, he felt unusually tense and on edge - almost irritable when passing by a group of teenagers sniggering over their smartphones - just as he found the stadium was becoming unbearably claustrophobic, the final whistle relieved him of his misery. 

‘Are you ok?’ Jim noticed his silence and inquired.

‘Yes, just a little tired.’ Harry half-lied, not at all looking forward to the tube journey sardine packed with a carriage full of strangers.

‘Alright, how about we walk a few streets and take a cab from there?’ Jim seemed to have read his mind, he put his hand on Harry’s forehead and tucked away a wayward lock of hair, looking slightly concerned.

The walk did clear Harry’s head rather nicely, by the time they were in the back of a cab, Harry almost felt his old self again. Half listening to the post-match analysis between Jim and the driver, Harry looked idly outside the window. The black cab glided through quiet streets lined with Georgian townhouses, elegant squares, illuminated shop fronts and - 

‘Why aren’t we going through Soho?’ Jim’s strained voice demanded, suddenly breaking the spell.

The cab driver’s reply sounded rather surprised, ‘Soho’s packed this time of day, mate, Mayfair’s a lot less traffic...’

‘I said via Soho, which one of those syllables did you not understand?’ Jim sounded almost… menacing. Just as Harry’s about to turn his head, he’d seen it. Outside the car window, a glazed shop front displaying stylish formal menswear, against a backdrop of tartans and orange lights, the name _Kingsman_ was printed across the glass. Bespoke - made to measure - ready to wear, a voice in Harry’s head automatically continued. Somehow, he was sure those were the words printed in smaller fonts beneath. 

They drove past Savile Row quickly enough, but Harry’s mind was stuck. Like watching a video replay, he saw himself pushing through the doors to the tailor’s, walking across the shop, his Oxfords hardly making a sound on the thick rug. A flight of stairs after that - not the third step because it creaked - then to a crimson office covered with front pages of _the Sun_ on every wall, floor to ceiling. A moment later it dawned on him: that was from before his coma, there’s no other explanation for the familiarity, the level of details, and the sensory presence of this - he was remembering, for the first time after waking up.

‘You’re so quiet, still tired?’ Jim squeezed his hands when they finally reached the station, where the cab driver was more than pleased to drop them off.

‘My head hurts… Let’s go home.’ At least this time Harry wasn’t lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of suspense to spice things up...  
> Thanks for reading :)


	6. Chapter 6

_He’s so tired, trapped, and tired. His ears still ringing from the explosion moments ago, his vision blurred, black fringes were closing in. He tried to walk towards the nearest exit, but instead he tripped and toppled like a drunk man._

_Raising the hand that’s been pressing his side, he could see it’s now dripping with blood. Can’t be bothered, he decided, I’ll have a nap._

_‘Harry, Harry, stay with me… Backup’s on the way, just stay with me ok?’ Jim’s voice just wouldn’t go away. Can’t a tired man just have a fucking nap in peace?_

‘Harry, Harry! It’s me… It’s ok, just a bad dream...’ 

Harry woke up with a start, his head spinning and his heart racing. Instinctively he pressed his hand to his side - there was no blood, or pain. In the semi-darkness, he could feel Jim holding him, whispering soothing nothingness into his ears, fingers slowly stroking his hairs. He closed his eyes again, allowing himself a few moments to calm. 

Flashes and glimpses of the past kept surfacing, and then they burst with a pop, leaving no trace behind. There were more blood and firearms than he cared to remember, adrenaline rush and frantic chase - he saw himself delivering everything with lethal precision, be them verbal lies or physical punches. But nothing quite like the nightmare he just experienced.

‘What happened? Do you want to talk about...’ Jim hesitated, ‘...your dream?’

Harry took a deep breathe in, willing his heart rate to slow. ‘I was shot, I think.’

Jim’s arm tightened around him, his fingers moved to the scar on Harry’s temple, ‘Was it here?’ Harry felt Jim’s lips brushed softly against his temple, ‘There, I’ve kissed it better.’

Harry couldn’t help but chuckled, ‘Thank you, but no, it’s not better. I was shot on my side.’

Rather than seeing, Harry felt Jim’s body tensed at his words, though it lasted no longer than a moment or two.

‘Oh.’ was the only answer coming from Jim.

‘This was different though,’ Harry stifled a shiver when he recalled his dream, ‘I felt… drained. Trapped and despaired, I suppose, not only physically but emotionally.’ Harry was baffled, for he couldn’t think of a logical explanation for his own reactions, ‘I think I was ready to resign.’ To death, presumably.

Jim said nothing for a long while, only holding Harry closer - their fingers entwined, their breathing gradually fell into tandem. Just when Harry’s about to drift back into sleep, Jim decided to start talking again.

‘I’m so sorry, Harry.’ Jim sounded like he’s tiptoeing around an actual apology. 

‘You’d better be,’ a little noise escaped Harry’s nostrils out of exasperation, ‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Pardon?’ Jim now sounded confused.

‘Do you make it a habit disturbing other people’s sleep, Jim Ellis?’ Harry yawned involuntarily, ‘I’m positive it’s your voice I heard in my dream, I was shot and you just kept badgering on and on in my ears...’

Jim released his arms, and Harry almost instantly regretted the deprivation of warmth. A moment later, Jim tucked them both back under the duvet, his arms surrounding Harry again shortly after.

‘Did you really? Now you’ll hear some more: shut up and go to sleep, Harry.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last bit of fluff, please enjoy while it lasts.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry pushed through the doors to _the Green Knight_ , feeling mildly clammy and extremely thirsty. It was a warm day for late March, and Mr Pickles seemed to be in a particularly good mood. He was practically dragged around the meadows thrice before the dog too, surrendered to the heat.

Not surprisingly, he was again the only patron that afternoon. Harry walked up to the bar, his eyes still adjusting to the relative dimness of the indoors.

‘What can I get you, sir?’ Harry looked up, surprised. Instead of grumpy old Pete, he was greeted by a new face - a young man in his twenties, fashionably dressed and styled, wearing an impeccable smile on his face. The accent was hardly local - in fact it resembled that of the concierge from a grand hotel.

‘Oh, I haven’t decided yet. Can I first have some water for my dog, if you’ll be so kind?’ Harry made a show fumbling around his jacket pockets before producing Mr Pickles’ travel water bowl, and handed it to the young man at the bar.

The bartender seemed taken aback, but complied nonetheless. Just when he extended his hand to take the bowl from Harry, his wristwatch peeked through his shirtsleeve - a _Bremont_ , which Harry recognised almost instantly. Curiouser and curiouser, Harry quickly smiled and thanked the young man.

‘So, where has old Patrick gone?’ Harry tried to sound casual, his mind racing inside his skull.

‘Oh, Patrick’s off sick today, I’m filling in.’

That’s all the confirmation Harry needed. Almost at the same time, the bartender raised his gun from beneath the counter - the kid doesn’t seem to have pulled a pint in his entire life, he certainly won’t start now, Harry thought absentmindedly - but his target’s already made himself scarce. Ducking below, Harry shifted himself under the gap under the bar counter door, before pushing the hinged door upwards as hard as he could. The metal squeaked and the heavy wooden board slammed on something - Harry heard a hiss but wasn’t sure it made enough damage.

Somehow, the idea of fighting in pubs really ignited Harry. His young opponent quickly relieved himself from the bar and came out to the open, much to Harry’s delight. All of a sudden, his muscle memories seemed to be triggered to release - a bit stiff at first but he managed. The younger man was not half bad at close combat - and there’s little doubt that he was quick - the next moment Harry was unceremoniously thrown onto a table, an ashtray painfully digging at his back, and a dagger lodging much too close to his throat than he would’ve liked. The pair of them were locked in a static push fight - the blade swinging between one throat to another with great difficulty - right up to the point when Harry grabbed hold of the solid ashtray and pounded it on his opponent’s head, really hard. 

The imposed bartender dropped to the floor with a thud. A few moments later, Harry slowly hauled himself up from the table, shaking off the broken glass from his jacket, his breathing still ragged. Glancing at the motionless form on the ground, he grimaced to himself - even if he’d lost all his memories, there’s no hardship spotting a trained operative when he saw one - _one of his own kind, no less._

Picking up the young kid’s standard issue and Mr Pickles’ travel water bowl, Harry hurried outside. The only creature greeted him was his terrier, looking rather energetic in the bright sunlight.

‘Come on, Mr Pickles. We’ll have to go before old Pete can pin this down on us.’ Harry took up the leash and sighed, ‘The water will have to wait, I’m afraid.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am terrible writing action sequence, but there we go...  
> Thanks to anyone who's still following, pop in and say hello soon :)


	8. Chapter 8

‘Hello there, you’ve reached Jim Ellis. Sorry he can’t take your call right now, probably busy downing the Green Knight... If you can’t find him there, try Harry Haydon instead... or just leave a message after the beep, cheers!’

Harry hung up the receiver of the payphone without saying a word. He’d heard Jim’s cheerful voicemail message more times than he could remember now - it would be a real surprise if someone did pick up eventually. He retreated back to the bench in the dark corner, the midnight chill biting.

It’s almost certain by now that that impostor of a bartender was on the job alone this afternoon, but Harry took every precaution to make sure he wasn’t followed. Going back to the cottage was no longer an option, in the midst of confusions and uncertainties, Harry found himself ended up at the peripheries of the adjacent village, after following a less known route for a few miles without actually meaning to.

More than just his muscle memory resurfaced this afternoon, the heat of a close combat seemed to have melted away part of the invisible wall between Harry and his past. Never in his life had he been more aware of his own identity: Harry Hart, Galahad, a spy, a _Kingsman_. This identity even exceeded his amnesic self’s expectation: Harry Hart not only upheld the law and justice, he also did that with utmost pride, as a member of _Kingsman_ , serving the institution he believed and belonged. Above all else, Harry Hart was really, really good at what he did, he was naturally gifted for sure, but his career was the making of him - the walls covered with front pages of _the Sun_ , the scars and the callouses - he was good at his job and he relished every bit of it.

Mr Pickles turned in Harry’s lap, interrupting his train of thoughts. Stroking the furs of the terrier, Harry noticed his right hand’s tremor becoming more pronounced - he was off medication for longer than expected now - he pressed his palm hard on on the surface of the bench, willing the tremor to go, but to no avail.

Harry Hart was the epitome of a _Kingsman_ , but he’s retired now - at the thought of that, Harry felt such anger, such indignation within him. That good old Harry Hart was dead, or might as well be. A gunshot wound to the head, the kind of head trauma that gave him half a body that he could no longer control, and a half broken mind that no longer remembered - he was robbed the chance of being Harry Hart ever again, before he even realised. What’s the point in remembering what you’re missing then, Harry thought bitterly.

Before this afternoon, Harry was content - or as content as any disabled, amnesic, retired former spies could be. A country cottage, with a Yorkshire terrier and a Scotsman for company, not as glam as one would’ve pictured but content nonetheless. Harry did exactly what Jim suggested all those months ago: he got used to the quiet country life, the local, the cottage, the weekend football match, and miles and miles of grassland, with Jim’s help. 

Swallowing the bitterness in his mouth, Harry closed his eyes - and Jim was there, standing tall in his navy bomber jacket, smiling smug in his Arsenal shirt - perhaps not surprisingly, Harry saw himself as well: he was more than content, he was genuinely _happy_ \- perhaps the retired Harry Haydon did have something that Harry Hart would’ve wanted.

Holding Mr Pickles carefully in one hand, Harry made his way back to the payphone, and dialed the number etched at the back of his mind.

‘Hello there, you’ve reached Jim Ellis. Sorry he can’t take your call right now, probably busy downing the Green Knight... If you can’t find him there, try Harry Haydon instead... or just leave a message after the beep, cheers!’

Somehow, this time, Jim’s voice wasn’t the only thing that reached Harry’s ears. This time, Harry Hart’s ears and brain picked up a different message altogether. 

_Jim Ellis… the Green Knight… Haydon…_

_He was so tired, trapped, and tired. His ears still ringing from the explosion moments ago, his visions blurred with black fringes closing in. Can’t be bothered, he decided, I’ll have a nap._

_But he didn’t. He fought really hard, and he didn’t fall asleep, because there’s something important on his mind._

_Jim Ellis… the Green Knight… Haydon…_

This time it clicked. Harry remembered - something important indeed.

Holding the protesting Mr Pickles in his arms, Harry ran towards the station as quickly as his long legs could carry him. If anything, he felt almost like Harry Hart again - the midnight breeze invigorating.

If Harry Hart’s heading for retirement, he will do so properly, this time round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly getting there, hope it's not too confusing..  
> This is my favourite chapter of the whole thing :D


	9. Chapter 9

‘I believe I was expected.’ 

‘Would you care to follow me to Fitting room 1, sir?’

So his memory hasn’t been playing tricks on him after all, Harry did as he’s bid, with Mr Pickles close on his heels. The thick rug, the creaking stairs, the stuffed head of a stag on the wall - changes were never high on Kingsman’s priority list. Harry ran his fingers across the back of a leather armchair - he’d missed this.

Before long, he had company - Harry had his back towards the door, but the faint click of the lock didn’t escape him. About time.

‘Galahad, what a lovely surprise.’ Harry slowly turned towards the voice - smooth, posh, charismatic - reflecting its owner in every syllable. Standing by the door, in his distinctive hunter green suit, was Harry’s long term colleague and associate - in fact, perhaps one of the longest, for Harry could scarcely remember a time that he _did not_ know him. Gawain, _the Green Knight_.

‘Gawain,’ Harry acknowledged his companion curtly, ‘always a pleasure.’

Gawain did not move from the door, nor did he display his affections as an old friend might. Harry could practically feel the other’s scrutinising gaze on himself, almost palpable.

‘God, you really are still alive.’ Gawain shook his head, smiling to himself, sounding more self-assuring than fact-stating, ‘When they first told me you’re flagged on the security system two days ago, right outside our own headquarter no less, I thought it some kind of elaborate geeky joke… Why, I myself attended your funeral well over a year ago, I was one of the pallbearer!’ Gawain stepped a little closer to Harry, as if checking the person in front of him was indeed real, ‘I saw your body too, lying right outside that church, with all the blood and goo coming out of your brain, smearing on the ground... But then, you’ve always got ways to surprise us. You _always_ survive, Galahad, don’t you?’

‘I do my best.’ Harry replied succinctly, but Gawain held up a hand to stop him talking.

‘This is the part I failed to understand. You see, this time you survived because of Merlin.’ Harry tensed at the mention of the name, ‘Oh yes, our dear Scottish friend dug you out of the morgue and kept you alive, except he kept the little secret all to himself...’

‘What have you done to him?’ The words sounded weak even to Harry’s own ears, unsavory images flashed before his eyes - Gawain was the best interrogator amongst them, after all, ‘He would hardly divulge any of his secrets to _you_ , of all people.’

‘There’s no need for drama, Galahad. I’m just… naturally _persuasive_ , shall we say...’ Gawain was amused by his own turn of phrase, ‘Funnily enough, Merlin was the one that actually convinced me you’re dead - not even you body covered in blood did that. Never seen a more miserable creature in my life, such sadness - I believe he even convinced himself that you’re dead.’

Harry squeezed his eyes shut briefly - he knew full well what caused Merlin’s misery.

‘Now, enlighten me if you will, why would a happily retired Kingsman suddenly show himself again, after all the troubles his dear friend went through to keep him hidden under everyone’s nose?’ Gawain finally dropped the false pleasantries, his voice cold, ‘Tell me, what does the unbreakable Galahad want, risen from death?’ 

‘You know full well what I want, and you know I always get what I want.’ Harry replied matter-of-factly - focus on the matter at hand, he willed himself, ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t send in a green cadet to disturb a retired man, which by the way, I find that deeply _insulting_.’

‘Drop the charade, shall we?’ Before Gawain could say a word, Harry took a step closer to his opponent, ‘You leaked our information to the other side during that mission in Eastern Europe,’ another step closer, ‘Eleven of our agents died because of the your action, double that number injured, including myself,’ then another, ‘Our entire network in the east compromised...’ Harry’s now looking straight into the other man’s eyes, inches apart, ‘All because of you, Gawain. You, are, _the mole_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TTSS!!


	10. Chapter 10

_This is a perpetual, recurrent nightmare. He was so tired, trapped, and tired. Can’t be bothered, he decided, I’ll have a nap._

_But he didn’t. He fought really hard, he had to, because there’s something important on his mind._

_‘Merlin, the mole… it’s Gawain.’ Harry poured his last ounce of energy into the microphone, producing barely a whisper, ‘If I can’t get out of here, make sure you do the right thing...’_

 

‘And who are you to judge, Galahad?’ Gawain did not flinch from Harry’s approaching form, a sardonic smirk crept up his face, ‘You’re about to become as boring as your moral high ground.’

‘Is that it? Your justification for betrayal? That you got ideologically bored with the institution you served?’

‘Perhaps, but then again I’ll say that just to vex you.’ Gawain shrugged, ‘Remember old Arthur, our mentor? Remember the way we used to look up to him, like he’s a real king? Well, he ended up joining the lunacy of a radicalised _environmentalist_ … My point being, we call ourselves after Arthurian knights, but we aren’t, not in this reality.’

Harry stood motionless, stunned. His worst suspicion confirmed, the one he thought so incredulous he didn’t dare voice it even in his head.

‘You didn’t know, did you?’ Gawain added mercilessly, ‘Well, how thoughtless of me to break bad news like this… Old Arthur’s changed, the world’s changed, surely you’ve noticed by now, Galahad. I don’t suppose Merlin kept you apprised of the news here - but I’m to be Arthur soon.’ 

‘You know as well as I do, that you will never be the next Arthur.’ Harry finally spoke after what felt like a millennium, ‘Given the fact that your loyalty lies elsewhere.’ 

‘How can I rephrase it to get it into that thick skull of yours, huh? Loyalty is immaterial here. _Kingsman_ needs to change, to free itself of those absurd Arthurian moral codes and constraints, and _I_ will be the one to promote that change. You can either like it or lump it.’ Gawain hissed his ultimatum, his distorted countenance no longer resembled the perfect gentleman from a moment ago.

‘In that case, I have no choice but to make it a long and difficult journey to office for you, Gawain.’

It started out like one of their countless practice fights from before - they knew each other too well, all the strengths and weaknesses of their respective opponent, down to a redundant tuck of an elbow - but then, they’d never attempted for each other’s life. Gawain’s never cared for close combat, not when he’d always come top of the class in handling firearms. While he might be lacking in power and stamina, he made it up with great precision - Gawain would’ve been a brilliant combatant if he’d deigned to apply himself in the art, Harry had never had any doubt about that - he would’ve been brilliant in anything he set his mind to, including changing _Kingsman_ to something beyond recognition. 

It took a fraction of a second of inattention - Harry felt a sharp pain to his side, the exact location where he took a bullet during that doomed mission in the east, a wound that almost bled him to death - he would never forget the cold creeping up his spine, along with the realisation of a colleague’s betrayal. Efficiently, Gawain already rendered Harry on the floor - when the blinding pain subsided, Harry found himself pinned down, his eyes looking straight into the double barrel of a pistol.

‘It wasn’t so very long and difficult after all, Galahad.’ Gawain’s trying to steady his laboured breath, ‘You should’ve stayed retired instead of meddling with other’s affairs… If it’s any consolation, they’ve always expected you to be the next Arthur. Gawain has always been a second thought that comes after Galahad, just like it is in alphabetical order.’ Gawain was leaning closer, a frantic grin broke out on his face, ‘Looks like I’m about to remedy that, aren’t I?’

‘That remains to be seen.’ At that precise moment, a flash of brown jumped onto the hunter green trousers of Gawain’s, followed quickly by an angry bark and a painful cry - Harry grasped the opportunity with both hands, he pulled his opponent towards him, and rolled over with effortless fluidity - he and Gawain had now traded places, his limbs pinning down Gawain’s, his face towering over the other’s. As always, like all firearm specialists, Gawain overestimated his weapon of choice, and didn’t have enough patience for observation. 

Disposing the offending pistol to one side, Harry fished out a familiar piece of metal from his jacket pocket, upon which Gawain’s eyes lit up - first with recognition, then fear.

‘What...’ Gawain’s voice trailed off as he watched Harry pulling the pin off the hand grenade, and slipping it into the pocket of his own hunter green jacket - _the Green Knight’s armour_ , he’d always called it.

‘Now you’d wished me to stay retired, wouldn’t you?’ Harry smiled - nothing quite beats the satisfying feeling of pulling off another mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a cliffy here, but resolution soon...  
> Thanks for reading, kudos for bearing with me to this point :)


	11. Chapter 11

‘Hello there, you’ve reached Jim Ellis. Sorry he can’t take your call right now, probably busy downing the Green Knight... If you can’t find him there, try Harry Haydon instead... or just leave a message after the beep, cheers!’

[beep]

‘Jim, Jim Ellis… I thought your name sounded familiar the moment I heard it, but that’s a _really_ cruel trick you’ve pulled on an amnesic patient, and I certainly won’t give you any credit for being original… And _Harry Haydon_? Don’t you think that’s a slight overkill, not to mention confusing? No wonder I hated the name so much, me, as a mole? … Should’ve got rid of your John le Carré collection years ago, I’ve always known that ridiculous obsession of yours will lead to nothing but troubles… 

[prolonged pause]... How did I manage _not remembering_ you, Merlin? Even the thought of it is unbearable. Because now that I’ve remembered, _you_ are everywhere, in my head, where you’ve been living for years… Should’ve spotted it a lot sooner, how could there be any other man with such awful Subbuteo skills _and_ such a perfect ass?… 

[indistinguishable snort/sniff]... You’re the best thing that happened to me, Merlin, just like Jim Ellis happened to Harry Haydon… I love you so much, you have no idea.’


	12. Chapter 12

Harry blinked once, twice. The blurred world gradually came into focus, looking oddly familiar - the sterilised white, the industrial bedside lamp, and the battered leather armchair by the bed. It took his groggy mind a few moments to register his surroundings, but the conclusion was less ambiguous - he was at the infirmary, back at the headquarters. Relaxed, Harry closed his eyes again, ready to drift back to sleep.

‘Harry,’ inquired a familiar voice, ‘Harry, are you awake?’

Harry grunted, wondering why he could never be left in peace for a quiet nap anymore. Reluctantly he cracked an eyelid opened - stood by his bed was a young man, dressed in the standard Kingsman bespoke, looking every bit…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden crushing weight to his chest, which nearly collapsed his lungs. The bulletproof suit of the suave young man’s was plastered right against his face, suffocating. 

‘Harry you bastard! Playing dead is not cool AT ALL! Have you any idea how hard things are without you? And you’ve missed me kicking Valentine’s ass and saving the world...’ The angry rant was broken off by a fit of sobs, the boy was now crying his heart out while holding Harry tightly like his long lost Teddy friend.

‘Eggsy...’ Harry awkwardly placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, then added in a muffled voice, ‘Sorry to interrupt, but… can’t really breathe here.’

‘Oh, sorry.’ Eggsy jumped up from the bed, trying to straighten his suit and stop his sniffling at the same time, ‘Got a bit carried away...’

Now that sleep’s been chased out of Harry’s head, the cogs and gears finally started running again. The fight with Gawain, the hand grenade… then darkness. Presumably how he ended up at the infirmary, Harry mused. Propping himself up from the bed, ‘Eggsy, what happened?’

‘ _You_ happened, Harry.’ Eggsy suddenly switched back to his animated self again, ‘You blew up half our headquarters, it’s like half the windows in Savile Row were broken, that hand grenade of yours? Gotta be the coolest stuff I’ve ever...’

‘Can we fast forward that bit, I was there you know.’ Harry tried not to sound too impatient. 

‘Right. Well, we found you and your dog shielded inside the arsenal, presumably that bullet-proof door also took the edge off the blow. There’s also a body beyond recognition in Fitting room 1… Anyway, we found the wire you wore that day, and the recordings of your confrontation with Gawain has been submitted to the Round Table as evidence. There’ll be an investigation of the incident soon.’ Eggsy’s narration was subdued, borderlining cautious, and then he stopped talking.

Harry swallowed hard, not daring to voice the question, ‘What else?’ His stomach churning with dread.

‘What else?’ Eggsy was confused at first, but quickly continued, ‘Well, me and me mum and sis moved into your house, probably over a year now...’

‘No, Eggsy! I was asking what happened to Merlin? Tell me once and for all or I swear...’ Harry cracked, as if he’d forgotten how to make a threat.

‘Merlin? What’s he got to do with anything...’ 

Just as Harry’s about to explode, the door to the infirmary was pushed open - Merlin, in his usual shirt-tie-jumper combo, clipboard in hand, walked in the room with all the poise in the world - and _not_ dead, evidently, Harry let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding.

‘Eggsy, Harry and I will have a word, in private if you don’t mind?’ Merlin was calm as always, like he was dictating a shopping list.

A still very confused Eggsy soon left the room, leaving the two behind to sort out whatever issues there might be. 

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave Merlin’s form the entire time. He’d seen Jim Ellis in almost half the catalogue of Arsenal retro shirt collection, never once did the man in front of him look more the part of a school teacher than now, in those shirt-tie-jumper three-piece. Those glasses makes him look older, worn-out even, Harry thought, he’s pale, and it’s hardly the trick of the lights.

They regarded each other in silence, with half a room’s distance between them. Harry would never dream of a tearful reunion with Merlin, but neither did he have this in mind.

‘I’ve got your message, in voicemail.’ It was Merlin who broke the ice first, his expressions unreadable.

‘Oh.’ was all Harry could manage. He didn’t expect the message would be listened to, or talked about. At least not at the time he left it.

‘Had a little... run-in with Gawain when I got back in town, didn’t have access to communications for the past few days.’ Merlin spoke softly, even a little apologetically.

‘I thought I’ve lost you.’ Harry confessed. All those unsavory images spiked by Gawain’s provocation returned, and Harry knew his former colleague too well to assume otherwise.

Merlin looked up at this point, quickly closing the space between them in several of his long strides, clipboard dropped on the bed, he gathered Harry into a silent embrace - stark contrast to Eggsy’s, of course. For a long while, they simply stayed in the post, wordlessly reassuring the other of their continued existence, drawing and bestowing comfort after the end of a nightmare.

‘Jim.’ Harry whispered, after some time. He could feel the man in his arms tensed almost instantly. ‘Relax… I need to know the full story, start from outside that church in Kentucky, if you don’t mind.’

Merlin pulled away slightly to have a better look at Harry’s face, then he sighed, knowing full well the mountain size debt of explanations he’d owed, ‘If you’re up for it, then sure, I don’t mind.’ He laid them both on the bed, kicking off his shoes in the process, ‘You were shot outside that church, but you didn’t die. In fact, you were taken to the local hospital as the sole survivor of the incident. Meanwhile, Eggsy, Lancelot and me were busy saving the world from Valentine and company...’

‘Eggsy’s told me that much.’ Harry commented, picking up on things that escaped his attention earlier.

‘I’m sure he’ll show you one of his treasured feeds later.’ Merlin chuckled, ‘Anyway, there was a problem with our little side project at the time - the one involving collecting evidence of Gawain’s double agent activities. He knew someone’s onto him, or to be more precise, he knew _you_ were onto him.’

‘Hardly surprising, we were sidetracked by the entire Valentine episode, and he must’ve had his suspicions after the… failed mission in the east.’ Harry bit back the bitterness, ‘Especially of me, for not being dead, against his plan.’

Merlin’s demeanour turned serious, ‘The point being, your coma put you in a precarious position. No one but us in Kingsman knew about Gawain, we didn’t have any concrete evidence against him, and we had no idea who else might’ve been turned by him.’

‘So you faked my death, to protect me.’

‘Conveniently enough, you forgot about everything. I hardly did anything more than arranging a funeral with an empty coffin.’ Harry tried to catch Merlin’s eyes, but failed.

‘Gawain mentioned… you were the one that truly convinced him of my death, he said he’s never seen a more... miserable creature.’

‘Perhaps…’ Merlin became engrossed with the invisible creases on the pillow, his voice hollow, ‘I thought I had the right to be a wreck - losing you like _that_ , was even more difficult than coming to terms with your death.’

Harry couldn’t think of a reply to that revelation. Instead he replicated Merlin’s action from earlier - leaning in, Harry brushed his fingers on those familiar eyebrows, the frown line between them, the sharp rise of a nose, then the swell by the corner of his mouth - every so often accompanied by a self-satisfying grin - before finally planting a kiss on those lips. He still marvelled at every inch of that contour, memory loss or not.

‘Why did you come back, as Jim Ellis?’ Pulling away, Harry voiced the question on the top of his head, ‘If not for that ill-fated taxi ride, Gawain could never had found out about me.’

‘I couldn’t stay away.’ Jim answered eventually, ‘It was the biggest conundrum of my life: I desperately wanted you to remember, yet I couldn’t risk exposing you to Gawain, vulnerable and angry, the worst combination.’ Then he sighed, ‘In the end, I guess I just couldn’t bear the thought of you, somewhere out there in the world, being _a stranger_ to me.’

‘And the seduction? Premeditated or spontaneous?’ 

Merlin acted as if he’s injured by the question, ‘Seduction? What nonsense! I was only after a pint and some games of Subbuteo!’ The smug grin returned, ‘Need I remind you that you were the one who invited me to your house, Harry?’

‘Well, very confident of your charms, aren’t you?’ Harry couldn’t help being a little annoyed, ‘I could’ve fallen for old Pete for all I know.’

‘Never, Harry, not even when you try really hard.’ Now Merlin’s using his smoothest voice for demonstration of a real seduction. ‘You've got type, and that’s me.’

‘I’d blame the lack of distraction, given the confined social circle...’ Harry wasn’t going to yield easily, ‘What gave you the idea of sending me off to the backwaters of some countryside?’ 

‘Why, Harry, I thought you’d enjoy a bit of country manners!’ Hovering, Merlin seemed to be enjoying himself, ‘Of all the pubs with the unfortunate name of _the Green Knight_ , only one of them was located within commuting distance to London - wouldn’t want you to sell your soul to the pub owner just to watch an Arsenal match.’

Harry blinked, surprised - taking in the information, but ignoring Merlin, ‘And the pseudonym? Haydon? Not everyone’s a le Carré addict, you know.’ He taunted, completely lacking in gravitas.

‘But you’re living with one, I have faith in you... Subconscious clue, inception, call it what you like. It worked fine in the end, didn’t it?’ The reply came muffled, as Merlin’s mouth became preoccupied with something other than talking, ‘Besides, Jim Prideaux’s always got a life-long crush on his Haydon - sounds to me a rather apt namesake.’

Sounds rather apt indeed, Harry was satisfied with the answers, at last.

 

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the end. Hope it's tying up some loose ends.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around for this. The idea of this story actually came from a recent taxi ride (from Victoria to Soho, via Mayfair, went past Huntsman on the way). But then got awfully ambitious etc., finally resolving to creating an OC, hope this Gawain didn't spoil things. And my sincerest apologies to anyone who's not into Arsenal, Fever Pitch's too good to be missed.
> 
> Finally, thanks to sese, for her encouragement and beta (and she's the only reason this story had an HE). 
> 
> Thank you for reading, it's been fun :D


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